


Songs of the Past

by closetcellist



Series: Titan Arum [2]
Category: Battle for London in the Air
Genre: Explosions, Gen, partially described torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:30:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7675543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closetcellist/pseuds/closetcellist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look back; a snapshot of how things were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oro Se do Bheatha 'Bhaile

Andrew felt the explosion from a hundred yards away, crouched behind a building next to his brother. The ground shook and the boom was loud enough to make his heart skip a beat to match the sound. He couldn’t catch his breath for a moment, his eyes wide and sparkling with the same fire that had lit the fuse. He grinned, huge and wide and young, a red flush to his cheeks staining them to match his hair and the fire burning behind them.

Liam smiled back, though his expression was more serious, more thoughtful, still focused on the task at hand.

“We got ‘em!” Andrew said, a hoarse half-whisper. They had to move, and soon, but he was already moving, vibrating in place, filled with the energy of the blast. “We got the bastards!”

“We got their building,” Liam corrected, softly, edging to the corner of the building to peer around. There was movement blocks away, people waking up and running out of their houses, shouting down the streets; the start of a small chaos. “Come on, we have to move fast.” He stood, fluid and powerful, a shadow in the dark of the night.

“Got it,” Andrew said as he stood, less gracefully, scraping up against the bricks behind him.

“Let’s go,” Liam said, and he was gone, darting down the street.

Andrew raced behind him, already breathless from excitement. He followed his brother down the back streets, dodging in alleys to avoid those people drawn from their sleep and their houses by the commotion in the square. Andrew chanced a glance over his shoulder and he could see the flames climbing the town hall. The fire had reached the roof now and it was a beacon, wrapping the entire building in a blanket of light. Andrew understood, finally truly understood, why Liam had planned _this_ , chosen this building for their target. It looked like nothing less than a sign from God, burning the English right out of their town, cleansing their heart.

Andrew felt the fire in his heart too, felt it buoy him up, lifting him, making him lighter than air, light enough to race after his brother and keep up as they ran out of the town center. The wind on his face was a kiss. A light, perfectly Irish rain began to fall, changing the smell  in the air from smoke to simply clean.

He was grinning hard and wide enough to split his face in two when they finally broke the edge of the town, slowing to a normal pace and carefully circling back. When they walked into the Old Dun Cow, they’d caught their breath again, though Andrew still beamed, ducking his head and hoping his hat hid his expression, at least until he had a beer in his hand, an excuse for his uncontainable joy.

O’Toole was already ensconced at a table tucked in the corner, nursing a stout, his expression nearly the opposite of Andrew’s when he took his seat.

“Did you see it?” Andrew asked, breathlessly.

“Yep,” O’Toole said, tucking a matchstick into the corner of his mouth. Somehow he still managed to look grumpy, even in triumph.

“It was amazing!” Andrew said, trying to keep his voice down as Liam sat too, pushing a beer his way.

“It was a success,” Liam said. “You did good on the device, O’Toole.”

O’Toole nodded, taking a long sip of his stout. “Yep.”

“And, now, we celebrate,” Andrew said, grinning. He could still see the flames of the hall in his mind—he thought they would never stop burning.

“Yes, we celebrate,” Liam agreed, sitting up straighter in his chair, lifting his glass, clearly gearing up for a speech. “We’ve made good strides today. In removing the head of the snake—”

“Next time we should blow their actual heads off,” O’Toole grumbled, interrupting.

“Ciaran, we’ve already discussed this,” Liam pointed out, reasonably.

O’Toole just grunted in response.

“As I was saying, our work today has removed one of the biggest symbols of the oppressive English presence in this town,” Liam said, picking up where he’d been before O’Toole had spoken. “And symbols are very powerful. When these people see these symbols of oppression removed, they will understand that there is no substance to the Englishmen’s claim on the land or their claim to control this town and they will rise up. They will join us in our fight—”

“Need more stout,” O’Toole cut in again, draining his glass. He looked at Andrew long enough for his indefinite expression to take on the aspect of expectancy.

“Why do I have to go?” Andrew protested.

“You’re youngest,” O’Toole said, his tone flat which made it sound unnecessarily reasonable for such an unreasonable claim. He chewed the matchstick he kept in the corner of his mouth in a way that somehow managed to feel offensive.

Andrew sighed, put upon, and looked at his brother to manage their wayward compatriot, but Liam stifled a small smile and said, “Bring one for me too.”

Andrew shook his head, but pushed his chair back with a scraping sound. “I’m going to spill them on purpose,” he threatened, though he wouldn’t. There was nothing that could truly dampen his mood tonight. He weaved his way to the bar from the back corner they’d sat in, his size an advantage and problem all in one. As he squeezed through to the bar, he heard a few of the others laughing, someone telling a joke.

"No, no, listen, this is a good 'un, here—how do you stop an Englishman from drowning?" The speaker was already starting to chuckle at his own upcoming punchline.

"Dunno, how?" an indulgent friend asked.

"Take yer foot off the back of his head!" the first man finished triumphantly, and Andrew chuckled to himself as he flagged down the bar man. Liam was right; he always was about these sorts of things. He ordered three more beers and a minute later attempted the way back, which proved much more treacherous in the contained space than the way there had been. There was some unavoidable spillage, but because he was a good person—a saint really—he took the most affected glass for himself when he reached their corner table again.

Liam and O’Toole were in a low conversation, or rather, Liam was in low conversation at O’Toole, who occasionally grunted agreement or asked a single-word question.

“I thought we were supposed to be celebrating, not planning,” Andrew said, pushing glasses over to the two of them.

“I was just telling O’Toole how next time we should make sure you should wear a bigger cap,” Liam said, tugging the brim of Andrew’s cap down with a small smile. “If anyone sees you they’re going to recognize your ears.”

Andrew flushed, batting him away, the tips of his ears already turning red. “They will _not_.”

Liam laughed quietly, his expression soft in the dim light of the bar. Andrew looked up at him and felt his heart swell. He knew again in that moment he’d do anything for Liam, and anything for their Ireland—the Ireland Liam saw and loved and knew could exist again and be free as they were meant to be. They were both buried too deep in his soul for him to do anything else; they were his home.


	2. Sarfaroshi Ki Tamanna

When Dr. Jhandir had been recruited by the government, just out of school, it had seemed like an enormous honor. After a frustrating academic experience, his potential was finally being recognized. He was a doctor, a fully-certified surgeon, and the first (he was sure) Indian man with any real position in the government. He was prepared for push-back, for scorn he could return with interest. For a sea of milk-white faces that he could shock with his skills.

Dr. Anil Jhandir was not quite prepared for this.

Of course, he had heard rumors of what Lord Beck’s men got up to and he had assumed several things when he was recruited specifically for this branch. But a man strapped naked and awake to an operating table was not exactly what he had pictured.

The room Lord Beck had led him to was small, just the table, a tray of instruments, a small desk in the corner, and an enormous mirror filling most of one wall. One of Lord Beck’s clerks filed silently in after them, taking up a seat at the little desk and carefully spreading out some papers.

“We realize this might be a bit different than you expected for your first assignment,” Lord Beck said.

“A bit, sir,” Dr. Jhandir agreed, though not too forcefully.

“Still, we’ve heard great things about your skills as a surgeon,” Lord Beck continued.

The man on the table let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

“This young man here,” Lord Beck continued. “Is Alan Bigsby. He’s been involved in some very unsavory things and doesn’t like our government very much. We’d like you to help Reginald—“

The clerk at the desk cleared his throat quietly.

“I apologize. We’d like you to help Mr. Williams get some answers out of Mr. Bigsby,” Lord Beck finished.

“I see,” Dr. Jhandir said.

“We encourage creativity,” Lord Beck said. “Mr. Williams will handle the questioning, so you just concentrate on getting him talking.” He turned and left the room, and for a moment silence reigned, thin as glass.

“Do your worst,” Bigsby spat from the table, aiming for bravado and hitting foolhardy.

Dr. Jhandir moved with a little too much precision, his mind racing as he looked over the implements laid out for him. Most were medical, but a few he didn’t recognize, though he could imagine how someone might be creative with them. Mr. Williams cleared his throat from the corner, and finally spoke. “Let’s begin. Mr. Alan Bigsby—you have been accused and found guilty of anti-government sentiments and planning treasonous actions. Who are your co-conspirators?”

“I don’t have any co-conspirators,” Bigsby ground out. “Because I never conspired to do anything.”

“Doctor, you may begin,” Mr. Williams said, unaffected.

Dr. Jhandir picked up the scalpel. It was the most familiar, and it felt comfortable, right in his hand. He turned to the man on the table, looking him over and trying to decide what to do.

Bigsby glared up at him. “What kind of doctor are you?” he snarled.

“A very good one,” Dr. Jhandir said. He reached out and began to cut, starting with the standard autopsy “y.” Bigsby groaned, gritting his teeth, closing his eyes and turning his head away as though not seeing it might mean it wasn’t happening. Yet it continued to happen, as the doctor slowly flayed him and soon he was making more noise, straining at his bonds. Dr. Jhandir had wondered, before, idly, what it might be like to do something like this. He’d wondered if he’d feel anything at all. Now he wondered how he could be so silly to think that. His own blood felt hot in his veins as he watched Bigsby’s spilling slowly out as he created seams in his flesh. Mr. Williams broke in a few times to ask questions, but Bigsby refused to answer or answered the same as before. Dr. Jhandir didn’t pay much attention to the words.

When Bigsby finally screamed, real and heartrending, Dr. Jhandir felt his veins flood with fire. He distantly heard himself gasp, suddenly aware of himself in a way he’d never been before. He cut more, deeper, the screams in the room a song, a symphony.

He could see the exact moment when Bigsby broke; hear the change in pitch and tone of his screams; could see his expression crack. Dr. Jhandir bit through his own lip, the small noise he made covered entirely by the screams of the man on the table.

Apparently Mr. Williams recognized it too, as he once again cut in. “Now, if we could go over this one more time,” he said, dryly, consulting his paper. “Who were your accomplices?”

Dr. Jhandir could barely hear the clerk over the pounding of his own heart in his ears. He didn’t understand how the man could sound so bored in such a sublime moment.

“I don’t have any!” the man on the table sobbed. “I swear—I don’t have any! Please, please, I never had any accomplices—“

“Please continue, doctor,” Mr. Williams said, with a quiet sigh that was buried under the desperate howl of the man on the table as he thrashed, trying unsuccessfully to pull himself from his bonds.

Dr. Jhandir absently licked his lip where he’d bitten it, not noticing the taste of the blood because the room was so heavy with its thick, coppery smell. He lifted his hand and absently noted it was shaking; he was vibrating with energy, a captured lightning bolt in a cage of flesh. He was vengeance and power and the heart of a star. He was incandescent.

“Doctor!” Mr. Williams said sharply, irritation finally giving his words some color.

Dr. Jhandir blinked, and realized he had nicked the carotid artery with his shaking hand. A flood of crimson was spilling over the table, spraying up his hand and sleeve. The man on the table was dying. He was going to die, and his blood was beautiful. “Oh,” he breathed, watching the blood continue to flood the table, dripping off onto the floor and snaking in a silken ribbon toward the drain.

“Doctor Jhandir!” Mr. Williams repeated, sounding angry now. He’d actually risen from his seat and looked ready to spring to the man’s side, as though he knew anything about medicine, when Lord Beck’s voice suddenly sounded in the chamber.

“It’s all right, Reginald, let him be,” Lord Beck said, sounding only slightly tinny. “You are dismissed. Dr. Jhandir, I will see you in the hall, when you’re ready.”

Dr. Jhandir nodded absently, watching Bigsby’s eyes as the blood flow began to slow. He’d heard you could see a change in the eyes at the moment of death and he was entranced even as the clerk shuffled out behind him. He didn’t see the moment of change, but eventually he realized the moment had passed. He wanted to see it again.

He finally turned and left the room, stepping out to find Lord Beck waiting in the hall.

“I am sorry, sir,” Dr. Jhandir said, but he wasn’t, not really. Only sorry it hadn’t gone on longer, like Beck had wanted.

Lord Beck waved his hand. “I’m sure it couldn’t be helped. This wasn’t exactly our specialty in school, was it?” He smiled, a smile that looked like someone amused at their own little joke.

“No, sir,” Dr. Jhandir said.

“Of course, we will need to practice a little,” Lord Beck continued, saying ‘we’ but meaning ‘you.’ “It would be ideal if we could keep them alive a little longer. In case they have anything else to say.”

“Yes, of course,” Dr. Jhandir said, still a little breathless.

“And Dr. Jhandir,” Lord Beck said, before he could walk away. “Don’t forget to clean yourself up.” He tapped the corner of his own mouth lightly, once, and turned to walk away.

Dr. Jhandir reached up to touch his own lip, discovering the blood with a sudden, embarrassed flush. He pressed his handkerchief to the cut, sure the only reason it was still bleeding was because of how hard his heart was pounding, adrenaline rushing through his veins. It really didn’t do to be seen so eager, so out of control. He crushed the handkerchief in his hand—it was ruined now, stained—and if he closed his eyes he could still hear the screaming, the pleading, and the exact, thrilling moment when it stopped.

He took a deep breath, in through his nose, letting it out slowly as he finally opened his eyes. He knew; he was finally home.


End file.
